


Fall on Your Knees

by Lexie



Category: Almost Maine - John Cariani
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chad and Randy navigate the sometimes-awkward territory of moving from lifelong best friends to lifelong best friends who have confessed their love to each other. There are some bumps in the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall on Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meadow Lion (Meadow_Lion)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadow_Lion/gifts).



> Thanks to kontrapunkto for the beta! And thank you to Meadow Lion for introducing me to the charming canon. Happy Yuletide!

After the third time that Sam texts to say that he's going to be there "in a sec," Randy's head falls back against the back of the couch. He says, "That jerk's not comin', is he?"

"He'll come," Chad says from the kitchen, popping the top on a new can of Natty Light. He checks his phone again; no new texts yet. "Just in time for us to miss half the first quarter on the way to the Moose Paddy."

Randy makes an agreeing, pissed-off-sounding noise.

"Hey, don't look at me." Chad stuffs his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and then goes back into the living room, two beers in hand. "I told him kick-off was at 7:30."

Taking one of the beers off his hands, Randy nods approvingly. "When it really doesn't start til 8:30? Good call." Chad sinks into the sofa beside him and props first one boot on the coffee table, then the other. It's a little closer than he would have sat just last week. He glues his eyes to the TV (his pride and joy: a 30" flatscreen plasma TV that he picked up for a steal at Sam's Club in August) and its pre-game coverage, and he listens to Randy.

"Sam's on time for no man," says Chad. "Even Tom Brady. We should've told him to meet us at the bar."

"Should've," Randy agrees, and they sit in silence. Chad can't stop thinking about whether he can actually feel the warmth of Randy's shoulder from where he's sitting, or whether he's just making it up. He doesn't look away from Mike Tirico and Trent Dilfer talking up the Broncos' offense. Normally, silence with Randy is no problem. They've known each other for a long time and they've got stuff to talk about, but even if they don't, there's nothing wrong with sitting quietly and being comfortable in each other's company. This week, though, after that night out in the snow -- it's weird.

They take simultaneous awkward swigs from their beers.

Chad's is awkward, anyway.

"So, uh," Randy says, definitely sounding awkward, "what do you think Tebow's chances are o--" His voice gets louder as he goes on in the sentence and then Chad can feel a warm breath against his cheek. He turns to find that Randy has looked away from the TV and is staring at his face instead.

"What?" Chad asks.

"You've got--" Randy raises a hand, looks like he decides against it and starts to lower it, then raises it again and jerkily wipes a bead of beer away from the corner of Chad's mouth. The pad of his thumb is rough and warm. They look at each other, on the same couch where they've watched hundreds of football and hockey and Red Sox games together. Randy leans in, just a little bit, and Chad grabs the back of his head and hauls him in the rest of the way. If Randy was going to complain or anything, it's muffled by Chad's mouth.

They've done this a couple times, over the last week, and it's good. It's _really_ good; it's great. Chad understands what the big deal about kissing is a lot better now that he's kissed Randy, and not just the three women he's dated since high school. But it still can be kind of weird trying to navigate the space between being lifelong best friends and being two guys who've said that they're in love with each other.

He blindly puts his beer on the coffee table, right by his own knee, then yanks Randy in closer by the the open sides of his chamois shirt. He tastes like beer and nachos and something that might be toothpaste, and then his tongue is in Chad's mouth and he has slung an arm around Chad's side and, yeah, okay, Chad could do this all day. He grabs Randy's face to hold him right there. Randy's groan vibrates against his palms and he's suddenly moving all at once, and Chad belatedly realizes that Randy's pulling him down with him on the couch.

There are an awkward couple of seconds while they're trying to fit themselves in together -- Chad's couch isn't _that_ big, and they're both tall guys -- and they wind up with Randy flat on his back and Chad on top of him. Chad thinks he might be kind of heavy, but Randy's not complaining; actually, he's pulling down so hard on Chad's hip and the back of his neck that Chad doesn't think he could sit up even if he tried. He's probably not _incredibly_ comfortable, though, because he squirms like he's trying to get a better position, and then Chad's raging hard-on rubs up against something that definitely isn't Randy's wallet.

They both moan and then freeze.

"--Do that again," Chad says hoarsely, because jeezum _crow_.

Randy does, pulling him down into another sloppy kiss and rocking up against him (the shock goes all the way up Chad's spine; he thinks he swears out loud), and they're getting _laid_ tonight. This is definitely happening. And ... shit, the announcer just introduced the Patriots.

"Wait," says Chad, shoving himself up on his hands; "wait, wait wait -- game's about to start."

They stare at each other. In the background, the crowd roars.

Randy licks his lips. "You got DVR, right?"

Chad dives on him.

"Holy crap," groans Randy, back arching as Chad sucks his way up his neck. "Turn out the lights, tell Sam we went to the Moose Paddy without him, tell him we went to the _moon_ , I don't care, let's just--"

"Okay," Chad says over him; "all right, all right already--" He's barely aware of what he's texting to Sam; something about meeting him at the bar later. It's hard to concentrate when he's shivering because Randy is _biting his goddamn ear_.

"Ow," he says reflexively, and Randy pulls back. "No, don't _stop_ \--"

Afterward, they watch the taped game in their underwear and yell at Bill Belichick's decisions together; they make out through halftime instead of just fastforwarding.

Chad could get used to this.

* * *

"I dunno about this," Randy says, staring dubiously up at the sign. A plow roars by in the street behind them, clearing up what's left of the afternoon's flurries. Portland does a half-decent job of keeping the roads cleared, Chad thinks; at least, compared to Almost, it does.

"Look," says Chad, stamping his feet against the December cold and rubbing his gloved hands together. "Think about it like a test run. We don't know anybody and I guarantee none of 'em are gonna give a shit."

Randy shoots him a long look as Chad steps toward the club, but Chad hears footsteps crunching in the ice behind him and knows Randy's following him up the sidewalk and through the doorway. It's warmer just inside. The club is a tiny dark little place with a big red bar, and it's packed with bodies. Bodies wearing a whole lot of neon colors and dancing to the thumping beat of a half-familiar song that Chad thinks one of his nieces might be obsessed with. He tugs his winter cap off his head.

"Hello boys," says a deep voice, and Chad looks up to find somebody in a whole lot of iridescent makeup, with giant hair and an even more giant pair of high heels, holding a bored hand out to them. "IDs, please." Bright orange fingernails waggle impatiently.

"Uhh," Chad says.

* * *

"Nope," says Randy, perched on a stool. The waterfront bar is warm and comfortable, packed on a cold Friday night; the crowd is mostly men and women sitting together in pairs and a few bigger groups, though there are some families gathered at the long communal tables, kids standing with their noses pressed up against the glass as they watch the popcorn maker do its work. "I'm definitely gonna kill you."

"It's not so bad," Chad protests. "This place is good, and Styxx might've been fine if we'd stuck around."

The bartender, who's been polishing glasses behind the bar and looking completely uninterested in everything since they walked in the door, suddenly snorts. "You guys weren't ready for Drag Wednesday or the pole dancers, huh?"

Randy blinks. Chad says, cautious, "Maybe not."

She leans on the bar, and says confidentially, "You should try Blackstones, up on Pine Street." She leans back again. "It might be more your speed."

While she walks down the bar to attend to a couple of noisy guys who just walked in together, Chad glances at Randy. "We did drive five hours to get here," he points out.

Randy drains his Shipyard ale. "What the hell," he says, and he wraps his scarf around his neck.

They duck up off of Commercial Street as fast as possible, trying to escape the biting wind whistling in straight off the bay. There are shoppers bustling everywhere, ducking from brightly-lit shop to brightly-lit shop, Christmas music pouring out of the open doorways.

"Why's everybody always in such a hurry down here?" Randy wants to know.

Chad laughs. "Probably because it's 10 degrees and they want to get inside."

Randy snorts and takes a half a step sideways so he can bump Chad's shoulder as they walk. The iced-over snow banks between the sidewalk and the street aren't high this year, barely up to Chad's knees, but he still almost staggers into one. "Watch it," he complains, hitting back at Randy's shoulder, and they have a genial shoving match all the way up Union and Temple Streets. It ends with Chad losing his balance and skidding out on a poorly-sanded patch of ice right in front of the Nickelodeon.

Randy sounds genuinely concerned and sorry when he says, "You okay?" though he does laugh when Chad glares at him. It's kind of a familiar place now, sitting on his cold ass on ice and looking up at Randy, and he figures Randy is thinking the same thing when something in his expression softens. He offers Chad a hand and, when Chad reaches out and takes it, pulls him up. They're standing close together; close enough that the white puffs of Randy's breath are almost hitting Chad before they diffuse. Randy's eyes have gone a little half-lidded.

Chad glances around. Somebody has put a scarf on the fisherman statue in the plaza and placed wrapped gift boxes at the base of the statue. The city's decorations are nice this year; white lights and wreaths on the lamp posts. People are hurrying past them, chattering and weighed down with bags. There are a couple of kids trying to skateboard on the icy street in between passing cars. Nobody's paying any attention to two guys in heavy L.L. Bean jackets.

Chad doesn't let go of Randy's hand. He just takes the first step again, and tugs when he reaches the end of his arm's length. There's a second where he thinks that Randy is going to drop his hand -- and then he stumbles after him, and they walk the next few hundred feet in peaceful silence. The old stone UU church at the end of the street is lit up, its clock and bell tower gleaming, and they turn left past it onto Congress.

The tree in Monument Square is enormous, strung with rows of red, green, and blue LED lights, its base blocked off by a white picket fence. They stand for a minute -- just for a minute; Chad's nose and the skin around his eyes are starting to go from painful with cold to just plain numb -- in the square and admire it, still glove in glove.

"I think it came from Presque Isle this year, right?" Chad says.

Randy shakes his head. "South Portland. I saw it in the paper."

"It's a hell of a tree anyway," Chad says; "Hell of a tree," Randy agrees.

The wind whistles down between buildings, sending newspaper skittering through the cobblestone square and two women hurrying past, shoulders hunched up against the cold; the lights sway in the tree branches, and Randy bounces on his toes and says, "Jeez, it's cold; let's go already."

They scramble the rest of the way up Congress Street, past the city's tallest office buildings and the art college; the museum and the art galleries, which are doing brisk business, and hundreds of busy small shops and restaurants. They duck into a smoke shop, mostly for an excuse to warm their faces and hands, but Chad takes careful note of the box of cigars that Randy almost buys for himself. It _is_ almost Christmas. In Longfellow Square, the trees are tightly wrapped all the way from the trunk to the branches with hot pink lights, and have these hanging yellow-lit spheres that almost look like alien UFOs. Chad fumbles a quick shot on his phone to show his sister, then lets Randy haul him across the street and into the bar.

It turns out that Blackstones _is_ a bar, plain and simple. It's packed with burly men who have beards and are wearing jeans and work boots and are drinking beers, and have to be at least a decade or two older than Chad. Age aside, he and Randy fit in here a hell of a lot more easily than they did in the club where everybody was dancing to Rihanna. But still--

They've been sitting quietly at their table for a while, watching strangers talk and laugh all around them, when Chad leans over. "Feels like something's ... missing."

"Yeah," Randy agrees, and they lapse back into silence.

* * *

"No, you should have seen your face, Randy," Chad says, laughing at full volume now. "I thought you were gonna swallow your tongue when she asked for your license." He exaggeratedly wipes tears from his eyes and ignores the light, companionable punch that Randy lands on his shoulder.

" _My_ face? You looked stupid," Randy counters, grinning and waving at Dave Perkins and Steve Byrne as they pass. The Moose Patty is hopping tonight; it feels like half of Almost has turned out. Bill and Carole have strung the place up with what looks like the entire contents of their garage of Christmas decorations. It's tacky as hell and just about the best thing that Chad has ever seen. Randy continues, "Besides, the whole thing was your idea; how'd you not know it was drag queen night?"

"It wasn't on the website!"

"The hell's so funny?" Lendall asks genially, coming out of nowhere with a beer to straddle the empty chair at their table.

Chad stops laughing. He glances at Randy; he's not smiling anymore, either.

"You asshole," says Sam, squeezing out of the crowd with two more beers. "I called shotgun on the chair, and you took it!"

"Ayuh," Lendall says smugly, flipping his cap around backwards with a flourish. "Can't call shotgun on a chair, Sam. Too slow."

Sam rolls his eyes and plunks both beers down on the table, snagging a stool from Dave and Steve's table while they're not looking and dragging it over. "What was so dang hilarious, anyway?"

Lendall and Sam are looking at them expectantly. Chad takes a deep breath and, with a pretty good idea of how Randy will feel about telling the truth, grins. "Nothing," he says.

"--Actually," says Randy, as Chad blinks and looks over at him, "it's not nothing," and he winds their hands together on top of the table.


End file.
